Know Your Enemy
by Xyletic
Summary: Acolytes are forbidden to kill each other on Academy grounds, but out in the tombs is a different matter.


The precious holocron is a hard-edged lump digging uncomfortably into Anzir's side when he finally emerges from the tomb of Marka Ragnos.

Another test passed. Anzir rests his back against the cool stone of the tomb and turns his bruised face up into the scant evening breeze, trying not to think about the trek back across the sands to the Academy. It might be safer to hole up and wait until dawn, considering the kind of things that prowl the dunes at night, but Harkun will seize any excuse to declare him missing or dead and Anzir has no idea how much time has already passed down in the dark.

Better not to risk it, he decides, and levers himself off the wall with a groan as every bruise starts to complain at once. Fighting endless shyracks and droids and Sith monstrosities he doesn't have a name for ... while Ffon sits in the library, probably with Harkun attending to his every whim.

Still, Anzir is looking forward to seeing Harkun's sour face again, if only to watch the disappointment when the overseer realises that his impossible task wasn't quite so impossible after all. Dropping his hand to the holocron to make sure it's safe in his pocket, he takes a few steps away from the tomb entrance before freezing in his tracks.

Someone is crossing the dunes towards him. The figure is hooded and silhouetted against the lowering sun; Anzir can't make out its face, but there's no mistaking the bitter notes of mingled hatred and triumph in the Force.

Ffon. Of course.

Anzir grips the hilt of his training saber tightly before deciding that's probably pointless; killing droids and animals is one thing, but a bare few months of training won't stand up to Ffon's lifetime of study and he'd rather not die that stupidly.

Truth be told, he'd rather not die at all, but it seems Harkun and Ffon have other plans.

Watching his rival stalk towards him , Anzir fights down the familiar swell of bitterness and helplessness and tries to calculate past the hammering of his heartbeat in his ears. Fighting won't work. Bolting won't work either - too easy to lose his footing in the sand and go floundering to his death. What, then? What possible advantage could a slave even have over someone who's been trained for this his entire life?

Ffon crests a dune. This close, his rage batters at Anzir's senses like a physical thing, like a swarm of maddened, biting insects; it's almost worse than Harkun's spite and bitterness at not being able to kill his least favoured pupil.

Almost.

There's the answer, that's the trick, and Anzir almost laughs at how simple it is. He exhales, steadies himself, and steps forward directly into Ffon's path, crossing his arms across his chest and feeling the corners of his lips turn up in a hard-edged smile.

Ffon hesitates. Just for a moment, but Anzir has spent half a lifetime reading guards and overseers and he knows what he's seeing. Ffon expected him to run, or to cower and beg for his life; open defiance has thrown him off balance.  
Time to keep him there.

"Here for a real test instead of being coddled in the Academy?" Anzir calls across the distance between them, surprising himself with the strength of his own voice; he half expected it to crack and break. "I didn't think Harkun's precious pet was allowed to get his hands dirty.'"

Childish, but it hits home. Ffon's shoulders tighten and his head lowers; he picks up the pace, his hand dropping to the hilt of his saber, and the maddened-insect sensation hums and buzzes louder against Anzir's skin.

 _Good._

Anzir darts a quick glance back at the tomb entrance, calculating distance, before turning his attention back to Ffon. The holocron jabs him in the side again as he subtly shifts his stance, preparing to run.

"I'm sure Lord Zash will be _terribly_ impressed by your gruelling efforts. Translating texts in the library? How could retrieving a thousand-year old holocron _possibly_ compare to a task that could just as easily be done by a droid?"

The edge of laughter in his voice is real, and Anzir is surprised to realise he's actually enjoying this. The sheer madness of what he's doing – taunting an enraged Sith who could easily kill him – is making him giddy, and he pushes the sensation down hard. This is no time to lose focus.  
Nearly there, he thinks as Ffon makes an inarticulate growling sound; one more push should do it.

"You know," Anzir says thoughtfully, readying himself as Ffon starts half walking and half-skidding down the side of the closest dune "if it was me, I'd be insulted if nobody thought I was capable enough for a real test. If they were only giving me tasks it was impossible to fail at."

" _I don't need to be tested_!'"Ffon bellows, plunging to the base of the dune.

Anzir laughs, and Ffon snaps. Seizing and brandishing his saber, he charges blindly, kicking up a spray of silvery sand in his wake.

Heart thudding and roaring in his ears, Anzir waits until Ffon is almost close enough for their shadows to touch and mingle before he bolts back into the tomb. Cool air and welcoming darkness close around him. He vaults down the worn steps and skids around the corner, skinning his palm on the rough wall. Ffon crashes down after him, too furious to be wary, and Anzir feels a surge of triumph that he quickly smothers; this isn't over yet.

The familiar forbidding hallway looms ahead and he darts down it, willing his aching body not to betray him. The gloom is deepening; through the mad whirl of his thoughts, Anzir wonders whether red Sith can see in the dark too.

Too late to worry about it. Anzir swerves sharply to avoid a heap of rubble in his path, risks a single glance over his shoulder to make sure Ffon is still following, and veers off down the left fork of the hallway. Nowhere to go now but forward, and Anzir sends up a brief prayer to the gods or the Force or whatever else might be listening that Ffon doesn't have the sense to realise that and trap him down here.

He sees the crumbling arch of what must have been a doorway once up ahead, spattered with faintly glowing bluish muck. Over the harsh sound of his own breathing, he can hear Ffon's heavy crunching footfalls behind him; the Sith is barely even bothering to run any more, confident that he's cornered his prey.  
Swallowing back the sour taste of bile and iron, Anzir forces his sore feet and burning lungs into one last desperate effort; he hurtles down the last few feet of the hallway and ducks through the archway, barely avoiding hitting his head on the decaying brickwork.

The high walls and uneven floor of the chamber beyond are carpeted in blue filth, and it stinks just as badly as he remembers. Anzir holds his breath and crouches low to the ground, instinctively bringing his arms up to cover his head as leathery wings shift and rustle high above. When nothing dives screaming at him, he exhales a long slow sigh of relief and begins to edge around the side of the chamber, gripping the holocron in his pocket with one hand; no point in getting out of here without it, after all.

More uneasy rustling and muttering from above. Anzir casts a cautious look at the ceiling and immediately wishes he hadn't; knowing the things are up there isn't quite the same as _seeing_ all those talons and stabbing beaks and ugly, eyeless heads. He suppresses a shudder and moves a little faster along the wall, trying as hard as he can to broadcast _I'm not here, I'm not here, I'm not here_ through the Force.

He has no idea if it's working or not, and just as he reaches the raised flagstone that marks the edge of the rough alcove he remembers, it ceases to matter. Loud, incautious footsteps echoing off the walls announce Ffon's arrival; the muttering from above becomes a saw-edged hiss from a hundred mouths.

Anzir half-turns, one hand on the wall, and catches Ffon's red-eyed, furious gaze.

He grins.

Then he turns back, squeezes himself painfully into the tiny alcove (scraping yet more skin from his palms) and waits. He'd give a lot of credits to see what happens next, but not his scalp, his face, or his life. His imagination will have to suffice.

Ffon doesn't make it far into the room; Anzir hears the rapid clip of his footsteps on the rough stone floor falter, then the clap and whistle of wings as the shyracks descend, screaming their outrage.

His rival's pain sends jagged spikes through the Force. Anzir ignores it and settles himself back more comfortably against the rough stone of the wall. It would be convenient if the shyracks killed Ffon, leaving no way for the death to be named his fault (though he imagines Harkun would try anyway), but he doubts that will happen. Maybe they'll take an eye, or a hand ...

A pattering sound like falling rain suddenly joins the shrieking chaos outside his little space. Anzir frowns for a moment, trying to place it, before light dawns and he wheezes with sudden laughter, clutching at his sore sides. Unless Ffon stashed a change of clothes somewhere out here, he's going back to the Academy either naked or covered in shyrack shit, and Anzir can't decide for the life of him which would be funnier.

It doesn't take long for Ffon to break and run, hurried footsteps slapping wetly on stone as his Force-presence recedes into the distance, but the shyracks are still agitated. Anzir spends an uncomfortable, cramped eternity listening to them scream and flap; when they finally fall silent, he eases himself gingerly back out onto the filthy floor of the chamber.

Half-limping, half-skulking, and keeping a wary eye on the ceiling, he skirts the edges of the room once more and ducks back out through the archway. Luminescent blue footprints and occasional streaks on the walls show Ffon's path clearly; Anzir can only imagine how much of the muck he must be covered in, and what a sight he'll make stumbling through the doors of the Academy.

There's no doubt that Harkun will punish Anzir for this, but with the holocron safe in his pocket and Ffon's outrage and fear still fresh in his mind, he decides today was definitely worth it.


End file.
